We That Are Left

by Lisa Bigelow

  ‘Grace, have you heard the news?’ Avril appeared around the filing cabinets, unbuttoning her coat and dumping her handbag on the desk. ‘The Japanese have bombed Sydney. Last night, in midget submarines. They slipped right into the harbour.’

  The fear Grace had felt in the studio a few minutes earlier flooded back. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘I know, it’s terrifying, isn’t it?’ Avril said, smiling. ‘Sorry, I smile when I’m nervous, but I’m not smiling inside.’

  ‘Does Sam want us to do anything?’

  ‘No, I saw him on my way in and everything’s covered. He said we should just carry on as usual.’

  ‘What about the bay and the rivers? They could be in subs, steaming towards us right now.’

  ‘Sam’s got reporters everywhere they need to be: the naval office; port authorities. There’s nothing more we can do for the moment. I’ll get some comments from the lady mayoress at the tea this afternoon.’

  ‘It’s still on?’

  ‘Absolutely. They’re raising funds to help city schools relocate to the country. Then the Americans can use the school buildings. Only in the best areas, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Grace said absently, rubbing her temples.

  ‘Oh, how did the photo shoot go?’

  ‘Fine—I think. We’ll know when we see the pictures.’

  ‘Are you all right, Grace? You look like death warmed over.’

  ‘Things didn’t go so well with Alan.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him. He’s irritating but harmless. Just a bit of a flirt.’

  Avril strode back to her desk and checked her notepad. ‘Why don’t you get us a cup of tea? The trolley lady’s around the corner. Then I want you to pop down to Georges. I’m told General MacArthur’s wife will be shopping there with their son Arthur this afternoon.’

  The poor child, Grace thought. Arthur MacArthur. What a name. ‘Yes, of course—if we haven’t been blown to smithereens by then.’

  ‘You know, this latest attack might make people a bit less complacent,’ Avril said. ‘Less prone to whining about rationing.’

  Grace looked at her immaculately dressed boss and wondered what she actually knew about restraint. ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘I think people have become a bit comfortable since the Americans arrived. They think it makes us safe.’

  Walking the three blocks to the glamorous Georges emporium, Grace was amazed by the number of American jeeps roaring along the tram tracks. They were heading in every direction, three or four soldiers in each. Other soldiers patrolled the streets on foot, stopping shoppers and workers, suggesting they leave the city and go home. Faces tight with fear, the women and children walked faster, heads bowed, bags and parcels held to their chests. Waiting at a crossing for the traffic lights to change, she saw two women looking at a Tribune poster advertising the final edition. JAP SUBS BOMB SYDNEY, it screamed.

  ‘I knew they were involved,’ one of the women said to her friend. ‘The Germans couldn’t possibly have sunk her alone.’

  ‘I think they mean the town, not the ship!’

  ‘Lord almighty, we’re done for. They’re probably on their way here too.’

  Georges was deserted apart from staff huddled near the lifts, far away from the doors and windows. They spoke quietly, eyes glancing about anxiously. A group of men stood near a ladder discussing the best way to take down the two enormous chandeliers. Grace walked past the perfectly arranged racks and shelves to the manager’s office at the rear of the first floor.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Fowler. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted visit today. The general’s wife has cancelled.’

  ‘There are so few customers. Will you close early today?’

  ‘No, we won’t, and nor should any other shop. We’ll go on as usual to reassure our staff and our customers. We can’t let the Japanese think they’ve beaten us.’

  ‘What about the chandeliers? I heard someone say they’re coming down.’

  ‘We’re just removing them for cleaning.’

  ‘How long will they be gone?’

  ‘They’ll be back in place in no time. You can quote me on that.’

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  July 1942

  MAE’S RACKING COUGH CAUSED her stomach, neck and back to ache. Lying as still as she could under the weight of three blankets and a quilt, she tried to summon the energy to rise. Hopefully Katie would sleep a little longer, just long enough for Mae to bathe her face and venture outside to the toilet. Reaching for the dressing-gown that always lay across the end of her bed to keep her feet warm, she pulled it around her, tied it tight at the waist and stood up.

  In the bathroom, she felt inside the medicine cabinet above the sink, looking for something to soothe her cough. Several glass bottles toppled to the floor. A sob escaped her; now she was marooned, barefoot, in a sea of glass shards.

  Reaching over to the towel rail, she grabbed the bathmat and towels. The long stretch set her coughing again and the room started to spin. Losing her balance, she cried out as she fell, glass piercing her knee and her hand. She used the towel to clear a path to the door then threw the bathmat down as a rug. As she hobbled to the kitchen to tend her wounds, Katie began to roar. No snivelling and spluttering as a warm-up, just full-pelt bellowing. Mae was sorely tempted to join in.

  By the time she made it to Katie’s room, the baby’s face was swollen like a red balloon and she was hot with fever. She wouldn’t take a bottle; she wouldn’t be soothed. Mae tried taking the baby into her bed, but that didn’t work either. She rocked and sang, but nothing helped.

  For most of that day and the following night, Mae lay on the bed beside the screaming baby, only getting up to change Katie’s nappy or fetch her bottle, feeling too sick herself to do any more.

  By the next day, with Katie having screamed through most of the night, Mae worried that something was terribly wrong. A list of dire possibilities formed in her mind: measles, scarlet fever. Mae gathered the screaming child in her arms and staggered to Claire’s house. The front door was open before she knocked.

  ‘I heard you two all the way down the street.’

  Mae burst into tears. Claire took Katie from Mae’s arms and fetched a cool washer from the bathroom. As Claire wiped the baby’s head, Katie reached out, grabbed a corner of the cloth and put it in her mouth, sucking fiercely.

  ‘She’s teething, Mae. Her poor little gums are on fire.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Mae said, sobbing harder. ‘How am I supposed to know what she needs? I think I’m probably the worst mother in history.’

  ‘All new mothers feel that way. It’s quite normal.’

  ‘What if something really serious is wrong and I don’t know what to do? I don’t think I can do this on my own.’

  ‘I know, Mae. I know.’

  Katie had fallen asleep again. Claire gave Mae the washer to wipe her own face. ‘I know it’s hard, but you have to calm down, you’re doing fine. Just follow your instincts.’

  ‘My instincts are to send her back and run away,’ Mae cried.

  ‘You poor pet! Leave her with me for a few hours and get some rest.’

  Mae went home and crawled into bed, bunching the blankets tight around her neck. Crying again and desperate for comfort, she closed her eyes and began a silent plea to Harry.

  Darling, I can’t stand it; Katie hates me, I know she does. Nothing I do calms her, but as soon as someone else picks her up she sleeps. She already senses I’m a bad mother and I’m getting worse every day. Last night I was so frustrated by her screaming I nearly shook her. I didn’t, but it was so tempting. What if I really do hurt her? What if I’m not being as careful as I should? If only you were here, you’d know what to do. You’re so calm, so patient. You’d know how to make both of us feel better. But now you’re in a jungle somewhere, in a prison. My darling, are you hurt? Are you ill? I know you’ll try to get home as soon as you can.

  Mae let herself relax into t
he mattress as she imagined Harry kneeling beneath a tree, surrounded by lush forest, carving a stick and smiling up at her as though they were camping. She knew the prison camp wasn’t like that, but she tried to avoid imagining something worse. She returned to her imagined conversation.

  How different this all is from a few months ago, my darling. I used to get so jealous sometimes when you described your trips. When Katie was new and I was still sick, I’d get your letters about the films you were seeing and places you visited and, well, sometimes I waited days to read your letters. Does that sound terrible? There were times when I couldn’t bear to read about what a wonderful time you were having without me. Is this my punishment, you going missing? I’m sorry, darling. I know you’re not having fun now. The prison must be ghastly, but stay alive, come home to me. I don’t want to be a parent without you.

  Early in the evening, Mae returned to Claire’s house. Claire put the sleeping baby into her arms. Katie’s cheeks were still a little red but she was no longer feverish.

  ‘I’ve put oil of cloves on her gums,’ Claire said. ‘Take the bottle and apply some more in a couple of hours. Those teeth will be through in a day or two. Not long before you both get some rest.’

  ‘You mean it’s not over yet?’

  Claire laughed. ‘I’m afraid not. But don’t worry. The cloves will help. Just make sure she has plenty of milk and water. You’ll be fine, but knock on the door if things get too bad.’

  Nicholas yelped from the lounge room and pushed past the women. Turning, Mae saw him run towards Sam, who was unlatching the gate. As Nicholas leaped into his father’s arms, Sam dropped his briefcase and hoisted him high into the air, pretending to let go then catching the boy before he fell too far. Mae bit her lip. The routine seemed well-established.

  ‘Nicholas watches through the window,’ Claire said. ‘He yells for me to open the door then tries to beat Sam to the verandah, otherwise he misses being whizzed.’

  As Sam strode towards the house, he dipped Nicholas so he was almost upside down. The little boy squealed as Sam leaned over and kissed Claire’s cheek. Mae knew she shouldn’t stare, but she couldn’t shift her gaze.

  ‘How are you, Mae?’ Sam asked. ‘I hear Katie’s been giving you some grief.’

  ‘Claire says she’s teething.’

  ‘Oh, fun and games. Well it doesn’t last too long. Dreadful weather, isn’t it?’

  Mae shuddered. ‘Yes, it’s been terribly cold. I’d better get Katie home before it rains again. Thanks, Claire. Goodnight, Sam. Bye-bye, Nicholas.’

  As Mae trudged home, she imagined the scene inside her neighbour’s house. Sam sitting in the kitchen listening to the news with Nicholas on his lap, Claire feeding Ella. Mae had only seen Sam twice since the night at the beach. Both times he’d barely made eye contact. Even tonight his expression was wary, as though he was waiting for her to lash out again, accuse him of hiding news of the ship. Claire said after the night at the beach Sam was worried that seeing him might upset her again. But Mae thought his discomfort was due more to his guilt over not pushing the navy hard enough for information. So although Claire remained a good friend, she tried to avoid Sam. In a way it was for the best. Seeing Sam and Claire and the children together only reminded her of what she was missing.

  Within an hour of arriving home, Katie was awake and crying again. Mae gave her some milk but she brought it up. Another dose of the clove oil barely helped.

  Mae walked her up and down the hallway, the baby’s screams piercing her pounding head. Her arms ached, barely able to hold the squirming, fevered bundle. If only she would be still! Suddenly, Mae realised she was digging her fingers deep into the tender flesh of the child’s leg. Horrified, she hurried into the nursery and set Katie down in her cot, closed the door to muffle the sound, then walked outside and sat on the step with her hands over her ears. Pelting rain on the iron roof echoed the throb behind her eyes. Sheltered from the wind, the cool air began to soothe her chest.

  She looked up and down the street, hoping no one had seen her storming out of the house. A woman leaped over a puddle on the opposite footpath then cursed as she stepped into deeper water. The gutter bubbled around a drain that was clogged with leaves, water backing up into a tiny dam. Blowing her nose, Mae noticed a pile of unopened letters spilling from her letterbox. Trying to stand, her arms and hips stabbed from the effort of constantly carrying Katie. She shuffled across the patchy tufts of grass that had once been a pocket-sized lawn, lifted the rusted letterbox lid and retrieved the wad of twisted envelopes.

  Katie’s cries carried through the front door, so Mae sat again on the porch step to sort through the post. Bills, more bills, birthday cards from Alice and from Harry’s family, another letter from Legacy, probably inviting her to a knitting circle to make socks for the troops. Harry would need socks even in the jungle if he was wearing his boots. But she could knit socks at home. The women at Legacy all had such sad stories and Mae felt terribly sorry for the few she knew from Williamstown, but Legacy was for war widows, and she wasn’t one of them. Harry was only missing; he’d turn up in a camp any day now.

  The next letter made her gasp. The naval crest was printed on a small, waterstained envelope with her name and address neatly typed but smudged, probably because it had been sitting in the damp letterbox for several days. She turned it over and inspected the back, felt through the paper to judge how many pages it contained. The letter was thin with a distinct ridge at one end. Probably just one page folded lengthwise and then in half. She tried to picture what it might say; something hopeful, something to confirm her dreams:

  Dear Mrs Parker, it would say, we are writing to inform you that Chief Petty Officer Harry Francis Parker has been found alive in a prisoner of war camp in Burma…

  The best news. She closed her eyes and tried to use her mind to force the words she wanted onto the page inside. Yes, he might be hurt, it might take him some time to get home, but they were writing to tell her he was alive, just as Sam had said last summer.

  But what if the letter didn’t say that? What if it said that he was…But surely Sam would have known. He’d have said something—or maybe not. Maybe this was another of those secrets he was so intent on keeping from her and from everyone who cared about the crew.

  Holding her breath, she slid her fingernail under one corner of the flap, teasing it wide enough to fit her finger inside. Careful not to tear any of the letter, she worked her finger slowly along the seal, peeling the flap back in a neat line. The paper was damp but appeared intact. Taking what seemed like her first breath in an hour, she sandwiched the envelope between her palms and lifted it to her chest. The envelope radiated warmth into her palms. This was good news, she thought. Bad news and the letter would be cold, but warmth was almost certainly good news.

  She hugged her cardigan around her and went inside. Gritting her teeth against Katie’s screams, she opened the nursery door, made sure the baby was covered, then closed it again to block the sound. In the lounge room, she dropped the post on the side table and sat on the floor beneath the lamp with the navy letter in her hand. ‘Please, please, please,’ she whispered.

  Unfolding the paper, she read the contents twice—fast the first time then slowly to make sure she’d absorbed every word. Once she was certain she understood its contents she crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it into the fire, watching until every morsel reddened, whitened, then became nothing but heat.

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  March 1943

  GRACE SLOWED THE CAR then gritted her teeth as she steered over a cattle grid set into the driveway. A wooden sign sat on the wooden fence: Dalrymple. The farmers of the Western District loved their Scottish names, but Grace doubted many farms in Britain looked as parched as their Australian cousins at the end of summer. The car’s tyres raised a cloud of dust as she drove at a reasonable clip along the driveway guarded by tall poplars standing soldier-straight. Hundreds of dust-coloured sheep grazed a
t the far end of the eastern paddock. The paddock to the west was filled with weeds and wheat stubble, ready for sowing with the winter crop in the next month or two.

  Despite her weariness after long days of driving, Grace couldn’t stop smiling. Here she was, Grace Fowler, on the road as a reporter for The Tribune! Okay, it wasn’t hard news, but it was a feature on the Australian Women’s Land Army. She’d been given a week, a photographer and a car, and it was up to her to cover it however she wanted. Well, almost. She’d run an outline past Avril, a mix of stories about city girls battling snakes on the land, women farmers doing it tough, kiddies in overalls, drought, longing and loneliness; it would be her tribute to the wonderful Life magazine photo essays of America during the Depression. And with Graham Ross taking the photos, she felt she had a pretty good chance of producing something worthwhile. She just needed five or six solid pictures for the double-page spread; two of the stories were already in hand: shearing sheep outside Jerilderie and peach-picking near Shepparton.

  Although she was only halfway through her assignment, this had already been the best week of Grace’s life, better than she’d ever dared to imagine. She knew without a doubt this was what she wanted to do forever. And maybe it would also be the week she showed her father she could be a success, that he had reason to feel proud of her. Her mother too. She’d told her mother about this assignment, that she was being given free rein to choose her stories and decide what to share with the readers. But her mother was as timid as ever, fearful of provoking her husband.

  ‘That’s nice, dear,’ she’d said. ‘But don’t be too disappointed if they spike it. There’s always more important stories that come along.’

  Well, this story was for the women’s section, so it was unlikely she’d get dropped unless there was an emergency shoe sale at Buckley & Nunn. Or maybe Avril would decide to run a spread on General MacArthur’s wife’s trip to the Dandenongs; tree ferns and Devonshire teas—riveting! Well, she’d just have to do such a wonderful job that there was no question of bumping her. And Graham had promised last night that he was taking the best photos of his career. ‘Like the Farm Security Administration essays in Life magazine.’